Warren Murphy: Angry White Mailmen

"Stand by," Sargon called out.

"This is it," Yusef said excitedly. "We are going to die."

"Only if you drive correctly during your turn at the wheel," said Jihad Jones.

And Yusef Gamal settled into his seat, winding his kaffiyeh around his face, thinking, It is just my mis­ fortune to spend my last living hours with this haughty snob of an Egyptian.

Then the countdown began.

"Ashra... tisha... tanany....sab 'a... sitta..."

Remo walked upto the bulletproof green partition and flicked a finger at it. The glass disintegrated into gritty pebbles like a windshield after a high-speed col­lision.

There sat a wizened-faced man with a frizzy iron gray beard and the signature red turban that had been a common TV sight only a few years before. He flinched, but otherwise showed no emotion.

"Looks like the Deaf Mullah to me," said Remo.

The ear trumpet angled in Remo's direction. "Eh?"

"Sounds like the Deaf Mullah, too."

Chiun snapped out a warning in Arabic.

The answer came back, spiteful and bitter.

"What's he saying?" asked Remo.

"That we are too late," Chiun relayed.

"Too late for what?"

"Too late to stop the launch of the Fist of Allah."

Remo frowned. "What's the Fist of Allah?"

Chiun put the question to the Deaf Mullah, and translated the answer, which was given freely.

"This Moslem says it is an atomic missile which will crush the infidel nation and break its heart," Chiun spit.

Remo lifted an eyebrow. "Thought it was 'Mus­lim.'"

"For this cruel shedder of innocent blood, I have used the correct pronunciation."

"He sound like he's telling the truth to you?"

"He does," said Chiun.

"Then we'd better strangle some facts out of him and get back to Smith. This sounds serious."

Before they could take the Deaf Mullah by his throat, the floor under their feet began to vibrate. It was a low vibration at first. Then it became a roar, and the roar swelled and swelled until the mosque shook and rattled, while on the floor the Deaf Mullah's face broke into a beatific "grin as the great dome above their heads began to fracture and drop large chunks of white building material.

Amid the quaking and breaking, the Deaf Mullah threw back his head and his beard split in the peal of triumphant laughter rolling out from his clenched teeth like crazed thunder.

"It is the Fist of Allah!" he shrieked as Remo's hands lunged for his neck. "Destined to burn away all un-Islamic corruption. And you can do nothing to stop it now!"

Chapter34

FBI SWAT Tactical Commander Matt Brophy saw the side wall crack and bulge outward amid the shaking of the earth. "What's in there? What's doing that?" he screamed.

The answer came crashing out of the opposite side of the al-Bahlawan Mosque like a colossal rhinoc­eros.

It was as tall as a three-story building, as wide as a two-lane highway and ran lumbering out on eight wheels, each as tall as five men. The stubby-finned rear section ran on a giant, tanklike track system, giv­ing it tremendous earth-chewing traction.

At first Brophy thought of the giant missile trans­ports NASA used to move Atlas rockets. But there was no missile. It was only a carrier. Gigantic, plated and armored to the teeth.

"Open fire on that thing!" he ordered.

Sharpshooters opened up. Their bullets dinged and spanged off the angular plates without effect. Then the remorseless behemoth came lumbering at them.

There wasn't time to get the LAVs out of the path. So the men just scattered. It didn't matter. The giant monster of steel plate simply rolled over two LAVs, crushing them flat on exploding tires.

"What is that thing?" a sharpshooter howled, get­ting out of its way.

"I don't know. I better call this in."

"Call what in? What is it?"

"Damned if I know," Brophy muttered as they re­treated to watch the steely monster lunge across the median strip to straddle the Ohio Turnpike. "But if that isn't the postal-service eagle on one side, I'll eat my pension."

The word wentfrom the director of the FBI to the President of the United States, who saw his political life melt down before his blinking eyes.

"What is it?" he croaked.

"Unknown. But it's big enough to hog most of the Ohio Turnpike. That makes it too big for the Bureau. I'd call in the Air Force, were I you.''

"I'll get back to you. Do nothing."

"Nothing sounds very safe right now," the FBI di­rector said. "Politically speaking."

The President reached out to Harold Smith.

Smith was in the middleof one awful epiphany when the President handed him another.

"Mr. President, I believe I have solved the riddle of the Deaf Mullah," Smith said, his gray eyes glued to his briefcase computer system as Abeer Ghula grunted helplessly in the background.

"I don't care about him."

"You should. He is behind this campaign of terror. My analysis of the facts indicates he tricked the FBI into arresting him and immediately letting him go, thinking he was only a double. Then the true double was arrested in his place."

"Your analysis also says there was no such thing as the Fist of Allah," the President said bitterly.

"What do you mean?"

"While NORAD has been combing the skies, the Messengers of Muhammad have launched the damn thing on the ground."

"Sir?"

The President described the gigantic vehicle that had rolled out of the al-Bahlawan Mosque.

"Why do you think this is the Fist of Allah?" asked Harold Smith.

"Because FBI says there's a clenched fist painted on one side of the thing. And on the other is painted We Deliver For You. There's also the USPS eagle and one of those Islamic red-crescent symbols on the hood or nose or whatever it is."

"A wheeled missile?"

"They think it's a converted missile carrier."

"It cannot be nuclear."

"Do you want to bet the farm on it?" asked the President.

"No, I do not. My people are on-site. Let me get back to you on this."

Hanging up, Smith waited. If what the President said was true, it would be only a matter of minutes before Remo checked in.

It was thirty-nine seconds later, by Harold Smith's Timex.

"Smitty. Something big just blew out of the mosque."

"I know, Remo. The President just informed me. Can you describe it?"

"Imagine a cross between the mother of all tanks and one of those monster missile carriers." "Do you see a missile?"

"No, it's armored up like crazy, though. And there are two guys driving it. One's Joe Camel."

Smith's voice turned low and incredulous. "Then it is the missile."

"What missile?" asked Remo.

"The M.O.M. have threatened to launch a nuclear missile called the Fist of Allah."

"If there's a missile inside that thing, I don't see how it can be fired. It looks like it's made out of welded surplus bank vaults."

"No, it is the missile."

"Huh?"

"A suicide-bomber ground missile," Smith said in a nail-chewing voice. "Riding below radar, too big to stop or interdict by ordinary means. A low-tech death- delivery system of destruction. No doubt the two men inside are the suicide drivers."

"So where's it headed?" asked Remo.

"Your guess is as good as mine. But you must stop it."

"It's too big to run off the road, but we'll give it a shot," Remo promised.

"Keep me informed."

Remo tore alongthe Ohio Turnpike in the wake of the Fist of Allah, saying, "It may be big but it sure isn't fast."

"We will stop the monster," Chiun said firmly.

Accelerating, Remo came up to the machine's rump, hung there pacing it while he said, "You can jump out and climb aboard, then I'll stop in front of it and do my thing."

"Stop in front of it. Then we will both step out with the serene dignity we deserve and do our awesome things."